Fireflies

Mom turned the radio on just loud enough to battle the grinding of the old rental car. I had never used a crank handle to roll down my window before and the worn fabric reminded me of my grandmother’s carpet. The car had an unsettling aroma of mothballs soaked in gasoline, and any effort made to cover up either of these smells had been useless. However, I had dealt with loud cars and musty air before so it didn’t bother me as much as it did my family. What I hadn’t dealt with before was an hour-long silence between Lily, Mom, and me.

There was only the rumble from the car and the static of the old radio. When we first began our journey, I had taken turns watching both of them. Lily played with her seatbelt and kept her eyes down while Mom bit her lips shut, leaving them chapped and slightly blue. In the center console sat dad's little, black journal, shifting from side to side with the weight of each turn. I gazed at the front cover of the Moleskin book, losing myself. He had carried it with him everywhere, scribbling down ideas or reminders. It was a habit he’d carried from childhood and one I often copied. When he wasn't looking, I'd steal it from his jacket pocket, add my own notes or drawings, and then sneak it back into place.

Mom took a sharp left and my gaze broke. It had been more than two weeks since the car crash and silence still overtook most of our moments together. I rested my cast on the window and avoided looking at either of them, peering through the dirty glass. The grey buildings and sidewalks slowly transformed into a mess of grass and trees, and it wasn’t long before I saw our house in the distance.

Dad had always referred to it as “the shack” in his journal, and from far away I could see why. Overgrown weeds intruded on the dirt road that led to our porch. And, even with the green, rolling fields acting as a backdrop, our house wasn’t much of a sight. Chipped, white paint hid the original wood that the house had been built on and asymmetrical windows lined the sides. Mom and dad had originally intended to fix the place up. Because of this, piles of construction supplies collected dust on the outside of our home and throughout the hallways.

We pulled up, bringing the car to a stop. Mom turned off the car and stared down our battered porch. A light breeze pushed tall grass against the edges of our home, hiding the wilted foundation. The air was dense as I breathed it in and, for a second, the whole world seemed to stand still. Together, we let out a collective sigh and began the journey into the shack. I grabbed dad's journal, sliding it into my pocket, and made my way inside.

Mom’s phone calls were the worst part of the next few weeks. Granted, the pain as my arm healed wasn't exactly pleasant, and using my left hand to write and draw had become a process of its own. But nothing compared to mom's afternoons spent at the kitchen table, using every minute she had to make the same phone calls over and over again. Hearing my mother’s voice go from soft and polite to desperate and tense has become a daily expectation. Dad’s insurance had paid us out a total of $20,000, but the funeral costs had taken more than half of that. What remained would only get us through a few months as the bills piled up.

I watched mom develop a daily routine of scouring the paper for job listings, circling every inch until she was ready to pick up the phone. Some mornings she would manically call them all within the first few hours, asking about any position that would keep her from drowning- keep all of us from drowning. Other days she would just stare at the newspaper, her face exhausted and worm from the tears. When she knew it was time to give up for the day, she’d retreat into her bedroom until one of us called out for dinner.

Our phone line was busy the first few weeks. However, a majority of the calls weren’t from anyone mom wanted to hear from. “Yes? Yes! This is her? Is this about the position at-“, followed by a brief silence. She’d take a second to push her hair out of her eyes or adjust her shirt, then respond in a tired, defeated tone. “Yes, this is Mrs. Clark. Or, was- yes. That’s right. No, he’s no longer with us...”

I’ve always found it odd how many bill collectors called that first month, sometimes two or three times a day. I watched mom from dark hallways and listened behind closed doors as she had to turn every single one of them away. In the beginning, the ringing of that telephone brought her bits of hope and brief smiles- the possibility of moving forward. Eventually, as the first month faded into the second and she still hadn’t landed a position, each phone call was followed by soft curses under her breath and a stare into space. On her worst days, she would just let the phone hang from the cord and I’d watch it rhythmically clink against the wall, softly knocking.

My little sister was only half aware of everything going on up to that point, and in some way, I envied her. She knew that dad wasn’t there anymore but she didn’t fully understand why he hadn’t come back yet. While reading through dad's journal, I came upon a familiar memory between him and Lily that had happened only weeks before the accident.

He used to play a game with her where they’d grab an old mason jar and run around in the fields catching fireflies. When Lily had finally caught enough to please her adventurous, little heart, she’d cap the lid and freeze. This is when Dad would run up behind her and swing her around, lifting her to the sky. She’d cackle into the Fall air. In between her heartwarming giggles, she'd yell, “I’m flying! I’m really flying, Dad!”.

One night, about two months after we returned home, I glanced at Lily in the yard through the window. I shuffled past the wooden planks on the floor and sat in the rocking chair on the porch, pulling out dad’s journal and a pen. I flipped past an old to-do list and a few book ideas he'd written down before finally reaching a blank page. I scratched the pen across the paper a few times, letting the ink catch up, and began to sketch the dandelions that intruded on the edge of our porch.

Mom was on the other side of the porch, scanning the horizon. It was one of those rare evenings where she had made it out of the room for sunset. The dusk bathed her as it turned from a sunflower yellow glow to a warm, burnt orange. I peeked at Lily through the beams as she skipped through the field, the shadows of dusk creeping up behind her. She was weaving a mason jar throughout the air, catching what little fireflies there were. From where I was sitting, I saw about four total. But to her, I bet there were thousands. When she was pleased, she capped off the lid and stood still for a second.

She froze, then glanced around the porch and behind her. It took me a second to realize that she was expecting dad to show up out of nowhere. I felt my rocking chair slow and even the birds seemed to stop chirping. The orange haze had fled from the horizon as the blue night sky took over. I didn’t look at Mom, but I could sense that she was watching too. Confused tears began to well in Lily’s small eyes and her smile slipped into the night.

She ran past me, throwing the mason jar onto the doorstep. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, waiting for it to shatter into a million pieces. Instead, it had bounced back up and against the railing, a long, jagged crack creeping up the side. Mom ran in after Lily almost instantly and I listened through the window to the best of my ability, pocketing dad’s journal. I had never heard Lily yell before- at least, not like this. She was so small and delicate and fragile- my baby sister. But that fragility had finally given away and it was time for Mom to put her back together.

Mom yelled about the mason jar at first, but I know she wasn’t really yelling about the mason jar. She yelled until her voice became a tired croak. Soon after, the croak turned into tears, escaping between apologies. I couldn't see her from where I say, but I knew she was holding Lily. “I’m sorry- I’m so, so sorry…”, she whispered through the house as I worked to keep my chair still.

I think that by that point, Lily had accepted her role. Whether she was a punching bag or a shoulder to cry on, it didn’t matter because Lily and Mom had become what each other needed at their worst moment, even if only for an evening. This was not something I could do: I enjoyed my dark corners and shut doors. I found my peace through dad’s journal and the memories I still had. We all heal in peculiar ways. Mom busied herself, Lily lashed out, and I wrote while I listened.

When they eventually came outside, I peered up at mom. The area beneath her eyes was swollen and red as she peered out at the cold, dead night. She breathed heavily, sighing into the quiet air as Lily retrieved the mason jar, taking it inside. I broke the silence, asking mom, "Are you alright? Is... uh... Is Lily okay?”.

She looked me over, her face smeared and swollen. “No. No- we’re not. But we’re gonna’ be. Come in, I'll make some dinner.”

A few days later, we were back in that same, old rental car. There was still the smell of smoke and gasoline, but my mother left that old shack smiling in a way I thought she’d be able to again. My sister still looked at the seat as she drove, but this time she rambled about starting school and new adventures. I pulled dad’s journal out of my picket, running my fingers over the cover, flipping the pages between my fingers. I handed it to Lily.

“I was thinkin’ that, if you want…”, I said, cautiously looking over Lily’s face, “... that we could share dad's journal. You get it one day, and I get it the next.” My heart dropped a bit as she took the notebook and held it against her chest, but she handed it back to me.

"Okay," she said, "but you get it today and I'll get it tomorrow." Lily’s face lit up as she looked over at me, tears resting in the corners of my eyes. She could barely write her own name and I was already dreading the scribbles that would cover most of the pages, but it felt right to share with Lily- especially now.

“Ya’ know,” started Mom, “with this new job, we might be able to go to the beach again next summer if things pan out.” She smiled brightly through the rearview mirror at me. Her face was still a bit swollen and red but she smiled, and that was all that mattered to me.

“That’d be nice.”, I said back. I stared at the shack behind us, enveloped in overgrown fields that withered away to the forest and a single dirt road. A lone mason jar sat on the porch steps, blending into the deep cracks on the foundation of the shack. I turned and faced the front of the car, watching as fireflies brightened the dark road ahead.